


on the subject of worship

by milou407



Series: The Pantheon of Vox Machina [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Altars, Alternate Universe - Mythology, F/M, Folklore, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:11:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milou407/pseuds/milou407
Summary: She speaks, and Percy feels as though he knows them all. He hears of these heroes, and they sound so very different from him, so much better, so virtuous. None of them left their family to ruin.A folk-tale, about the last addition to the Pantheon of Vox Machina.





	on the subject of worship

In a land where the gods are many, and the people worship them fervently, everyone has an altar in their homes.

No matter how grand or how small, inlaid with gold or made of simple stones, the gods know that they can find a place in the homes of the faithful, and the people know that they can seek protection, or guidance, as long as they know where to look.

The de Rolo family had the largest, most elaborate altar in all of Whitestone. There was the public altar, yes, in the town square situated beneath the Sun Tree. It was carved of whitestone, inlaid with mother of pearl and gold accents, a haven for the god of the sun, the god of the harvest, and any other god who deigned to visit. All the town was welcome to worship there, and it was never bare of offerings. The smaller, private family altar was in the family chapel, also made of whitestone, but inlaid with bits of residuum glass, glinting dark green and flinging shards of light when the sun struck it just right. It too was never bare of offerings, even if it was just a bit of bread or fruit from the day.

Percival liked to sit in the chapel when he was a boy and think, even on mild days when his siblings were outside and the library would be quiet. He would bring his notebook and sketch or write, sometimes keeping the drawings for himself, sometimes burning the plans as offerings to any god that happened to stop by. Sometimes, he thought he could smell the scent of pine trees wafting through the halls of the old, stone chapel, or feel a breeze running its fingers through his hair. Once, he heard a woman’s laughter, wild and free, but when he startled awake, there was no trace of her. There was a sense of longing, a sense of _soonbutnotnow_ that kept him coming back to the chapel, throughout his boyhood and then when he was a long, gangly teenager.

Then, the Briarwoods came.

There’s no longer light in his halls, no more fingers through his hair, his mother’s or otherwise, because it is all gone. His family is decimated, their home desecrated, even the little old chapel blasted to smithereens. The only god present is the god of pain, visiting him in the shape of a woman with a mechanical hand, slicing and carving bits of him out until there was nothing of worth left. He cries out, day and night, to anyone who would listen, _Please, help me, somebody make it stop._ He doesn’t really believe anyone can hear, but he would be damned if he’s going to go quietly into oblivion. He’s likely damned anyway, for letting these monsters into his home, so he might as well try.

He never expects to smell the scent of pine again, or feel a cool breeze caress his face. He thinks he is hallucinating again until he hears, _We’re coming for you, dear one. Hold on, just for a little while longer._

 _Who?_ He asks, though whether it’s out loud or in his mind he can’t tell. _Who is coming for me? Why are you coming for me?_

 _Because you are one of ours,_ the voice answers, soft and feminine and strong. Percival strains to listen, but there’s no other sound. There is nothing else, until the very walls around him begin to shake. Until the ceiling cracks and crumbles, falling around him and breaking down the cell that has held him for so very long. He kneels, alone and shaking in the rubble, until soldiers come and unchain him, wrapping him in coarse blankets and taking him up the stairs to the halls where he had been so very happy. Stumbling along, he glances to his left and catches the eye of a woman with long, dark hair, watching him in return. She holds his gaze and winks, turning away and vanishing before he can make any movement towards her. His last glimpse of her is the bright blue feathers tucked behind her pointed ear.

He falls to his knees in front of Cassandra and she joins him, wrapping him up in her arms with tears streaming down both of their faces. He has not felt safe in a long while, but with his sisters’ arms around him and the echo of a whisper in his ear, he lets himself relax.

Naturally, adjusting is not as easy as all that. He finds he cannot remain in the castle, not with the memories and shadows lurking around every corner. Percival ends up in a small cabin on the edge of the grounds, close enough to come down for dinner a few times a week, and for Cassandra to keep an eye on him. She’s not happy about it by any means, but he answers her summons when she has business that she needs him for, and she allows him his space.

He’s happy enough in his cabin, and even more so in the forge that he builds out back. The hammering allows him to regain control over his muscles, and he builds back most of what the Briarwoods and Ripley took from him, physically at least. The scars on his skin pale in comparison to the ones on his heart, but he makes do. For now, anyway.

In addition to the forge, he builds another altar in the woods surrounding his cabin. It resides in a patch of sunlight that breaks through the trees, next to a brook frequented by local wildlife. When he cannot sleep, or when he needs a moment to gather himself again from the places he used to be, he goes and sits by the simple stone structure. He ends up there at least once a day, at the beginning. This altar is not as elaborate as the old one. Grey stone held together by metal he formed himself and decorated with blue feathers and wildflowers picked from the banks of the river. He thinks she might like it better this way.

He sits and waits for a sign, any sign, to show him that he’s not as alone as he feared, that he hasn’t been abandoned yet again. At first, the only thing reaching back to him is the darkness, the creeping shadows that followed him from the castle. It whispers to him, a name and a promise, an offer to show him power he never knew before, the power to destroy any who would come between him and his family again, so that he could protect them better than any before him. It is relentless in its quiet repetition, knowing just when to strike, in the dead of night and the grey morning hours, when he tosses and turns and worries about what happened and what might have been. It rises like smoke from the fires of his forge, and it forms a hideous creature, built like a man but with eyes as empty as pits. It reaches for him, and Percival can feel himself being drawn into it, can feel how easy it would be to lose himself in it, to revel in its power and accept that yes, this is what he deserves, this is what he is-

_Stop._

The word reverberates through the forest, stopping Percival from taking a physical step towards this thing of shadows. The thing itself shrinks back and hisses, an awful gasping, gurgling sound. _You didn’t want him, you got him out and left him there. I **helped,** I deserve something for my troubles._

 _Not him._ The voice returns, still soft but with an edge like velvet over steel. _Never him. He is claimed, Orthax. Or did you forget?_

The shadow hesitates, then shrinks. _No, Lady. I did not forget._ It dissipates into the morning air, burning off like so much harmless fog, and Percival draws in a breath at the breeze that sweeps over him again, bringing the scent of pine and sweet mountain air back to him, familiar and good. He turns, and sees a woman, or what looks like a woman, standing at the entrance to his forge. She is also incorporeal, seems to be almost made of fog, but her eyes and her smile shine brightly at him, even when she wrings her hands a bit in worry.

_I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, Percival, darling. But, you know. Things to do, people to see. I always meant to come back for you._

_I never doubted it,_ Percival responds. _But, if I might ask, who are you?_

She laughs, and it sounds like the air through leaves, the beating of bird wings and the way water rushes over stones. _I am a goddess, dear. I am the goddess of the free, the goddess of the hunters, those who run and those who seek. I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long._

He feels as though the very breath has been taken from his chest. _Have you been with me all this time?_

 _For some of it. Watching, waiting until I could help, until we could help._ She grins wryly, _I’m sorry to have destroyed part of your castle, but needs must, you know._

 _Naturally._ He stands, entranced, completely unsure of what to do with his hands or his face or any part of him, really. _I feel as if I should bow._

She laughs again, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. _Bow if you like, I won’t stop you. But you’re one of us, Percy. A lost one, and we’ll come back for you._

 _Who?_ He asks, and she steps towards him as she dissolves into mist. He can’t see her, but he can feel the breath on his ear as she responds.

 _Vox Machina, darling. The protectors of this world. Fear not, for we protect what is ours._ And with something that feels suspiciously like a kiss to his cheek, she departs.

He stands, stricken for a few moments, before an errant breeze rifles papers on the sturdy workbench. They reveal drawings and calculations in his hand, but that he has no memory of making. He picks them up, and shadows drip from their edges, curling around and down his wrist. He examines them closely, feeling the thrill of possibility when he understands the magnitude of what he holds in his hand. He breathes in. Breathes out. And decides.

Percival burns the papers on the small altar, an offering to the goddess whose name he still does not know, and a clear rejection to the shade that tempted him. He continues to sit by the altar when he has a minute to spare, for Cassandra has again started to drag him into the proper business of running Whitestone. He sits and reads, or simply places an offering and waits, and more often than not, she will appear to him. Each time, she apologizes for leaving him behind, says it’s not time for him to join them yet. He nods in assent, and asks her questions about her day, and she tells him of the wilds she’s crossed, the mountaintops she’s ascended, and asks of Whitestone and Cassandra.

It’s not until she’s been visiting him regularly that he asks what he should call her. She is his Lady, that is certain, but she’s never given him a name either.

She smiles enigmatically and picks up one of his offerings that day, a wild daisy he found on the trail back from the castle. She places it behind his ear, eyes soft and fond. _I was called Vex’ahlia, and Vex’ahlia I remain. You, however, may call me Vex._

 _Vex’ahlia._ He turns it over in his mouth, tasting the unfamiliar syllables. _And the others? The rest of Vox Machina, who are they?_

Her face lights up, and she tells him all about the other members of her band, which she claims is his, too. Her twin brother, Vax’ildan, and his love, Keyleth. How they danced around each other for ages, him sending his ravens to watch over her, she reciprocating when she could with her reaching vines and sheltering branches. When she speaks of them, her voice is exasperated, but contains many lifetimes’ worth of affection. Brave Grog, breaker of walls and destroyer of mountains, and his sister Pike, the mightiest and worthiest of them all. The trouble they got into together, smiting the unworthy in their wake. And Scanlan, brave, reckless Scanlan, who Vex always talks of with flashes of irritation, but with a fondness she can’t deny. How he was torn between his family and his band of adventurers, looking out for them all but desperately needing them to look out for him as well.

She speaks, and Percy feels as though he knows them all. He hears of these heroes, and they sound so very different from him, so much better, so virtuous. None of them left their family to ruin.

 _How could I be one of you?_ He asks on another day, much later. He is desperate for an answer, terrified of what he might hear. _You’re gods, more than I can ever be. How can you claim that I’m one of you?_

Vex’ahlia smiles at him, sadly. Like she was expecting this but is saddened by it all the same. _Because of your heart, Percy. You were destined to be with us, and you deserve it. You want to be good, darling, so badly. Your heart is pure, despite all that you’ve been through, all that tried to sully you._ She takes his hand and presses a gentle kiss to his fingers. _You’re more than you know, dearest one. You’ve been so strong and proved yourself to be the best of men and gods. It’s why my heart is yours._

Percival’s breath leaves him, just as it had that day in his forge, so many months ago now. _Please, take me with you. Don’t leave me behind any more._ He’s practically begging, but he doesn’t know if he can stand to watch her leave him anymore, not now that he knows she feels as he does.

She looks him over, carefully, and he feels as if she is looking through him, as if she can see through to the heart she has been speaking of. She watches, looks back up at him, and smiles.

That night, Percy journeys to the Sun Tree after sunset, when twilight is falling all around him. He sits in front of the Sun Tree’s altar, restored once again to its former glory, and places his offering just so. He sits with his eyes closed and waits, until he feels soft sunlight on his face. He opens his eyes, frowning, expecting to find he fell asleep and was woken by the daybreak, but is stunned by what he sees.

The Sun Tree itself is emitting the sunlight, beams falling from a circular portal in its trunk. He stands, and he can see through it to a grassy field on the other side. He takes a deep breath and steps through.

When he emerges, blinking into the sunlight, Percival sees all of them, and is struck by the depth of feeling that washes over him. They were waiting, watching for him. Vax and Keyleth, sitting in the shade of the large oak tree he just passed through. Vax watches him almost warily, but Keyleth beams up at him with radiant happiness. Grog has Scanlan on one shoulder and Pike on the other, the two of them bickering over his head, but when they spot Percy, Pike and Grog wave while Scanlan sends him a roguish salute.

And Vex, his Lady, is standing directly in front of him, a large bear (good lord) spread out on the grass beside her. She looks more real here, wherever or whenever he is, than she ever did when she appeared to him, and she feels warm and solid when she steps forward and rests a hand on his cheek. Her smile is as bright as ever, and he falls even deeper in love at the blatant affection and sheer joy in her eyes when she looks at him. She kisses him, and his world stops and realigns itself to include a reality where he is worthy of this beautiful, radiant woman, because she makes him feel as though he is, and he can’t doubt his lady.

_Welcome home, Percy dear._

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write this like a legend or a fairy tale, let me know if that comes across! I'm also playing with the idea of making this a series, and including all the rest of Vox Machina's origin stories, so let me know if that's something that interests you.
> 
> Also, for anyone who is interested, Percy becomes the god of the lost, the hearth, and the forge. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated


End file.
